CHROMAVORES
Chapter
One – Grist
The novice stepped out of the small spaceship into a grey stone courtyard tinted gold by the evening sunlight. Long black shadows sliced diagonally across the square granite enclosure. Crimson pennants, bearing three crescent moons, hung like hungry tongues from the ramparts of the ancient abbey which was to be his home. Despite his weariness the youth walked upright, with what he hoped was a confident demeanour, toward the three elderly holy men, robed in pale grey, who were his welcoming party. His stomach was wrung tight by a fearful apprehension. The three old men did not move as he stood before them and after wordlessly staring at him for a cruel length of time, two of them turned their backs and walked silently away disappearing into the cloisters like ghosts blending into the walls of the monastery.
The young monk waited for some response from the remaining elder who stood rigidly motionless, his hands clasped so tightly in front of him that his knuckles whitened. A look of tenseness in his eyes and the repeated flexing of a muscle in his jaw as he ground his teeth together made the boy more nervous.
Behind him, from the centre of the courtyard, the youth heard the ship’s static crackling sound increasing in intensity and volume. With a sudden burst of white noise it jerked itself from the ground, hovered for a second then effortlessly shot vertically into the sky. The two watched as it dwindled into a speck and vanished from view leaving them alone together in the silence.
Suddenly the awkward old monk’s commanding voice cracked stridently through the air.
“Bowdon Grist, you have been honoured to serve his most pious Excellency the most Worshipful and blessed Abbot of Jupe. Balgathous the thirty seventh” Pronounced the elder in an excessively loud voice as if reciting a well rehearsed speech. He was shouting over Grist’s head as if addressing a crowd congregated on a distant horizon.
“I am your mentor, Shellshale.” He continued in the same formal address. “Your appointment here on Verdas is by order of the Cardinal Circle.” He paused, as if trying to remember the next line of his recital. “We of the order of the Abbey of Saint Jupistaire undertake the responsibility of your induction, instruction and education. We can offer you some assistance in your task, but the responsibility of curing this unhappy world is ultimately yours. Do you understand?”
The boy did not understand. He shook his head, shrugged apologetically and wished he was home.
Shellshale’s wrinkled brow furrowed, his nose creased in frustration, his watery eyes narrowed and his puckered mouth drew itself into an unnatural grimace.
“Are you deaf or suffering from a disability of the mind?” He demanded bluntly.
Then with speed surprising for his age Shellshale’s bony old finger jabbed Grist in the shoulder.
The unprovoked maliciousness of the attack and the shock of the pain were enough to shatter Grist’s fragile pretence at courage, he gave an involuntary whimper of pain, tears flooded his eyes and he fell sobbing to the ground.
The weeping, frightened youth was silently lifted by the elderly monk and carried through the failing light into the heart of the Abbey.
The Abbey of Saint Jupistaire crouched like a petrified toad high on a craggy
rock. This sheer monolithic promontory nestled in the shadow of a ring of dark
barren mountains. Ominous masses which seemed to encircle the world like the
walls of hell. These nine black giants of granite blocked the early morning
sun from the floor of the valley, the valley from which Abbey rock sprang, and
in the stillness, no birds sang.
No one had come for Grist in the morning but hunger drew him from his cell to explore for food. He had not eaten since his rations had run out on the space ship and his tired and beaten body was aching for sustenance. From his cell he walked cautiously and quickly along endless stone corridors which twisted round courtyards and towers. Through dark narrow tunnels he scurried, across a bridge over a stone canal. The chill of the night still clung to the silent Abbey making the flagstones and cobbles numb his feet with cold. The only sounds Grist heard were those of his own footsteps, his frightened heartbeat and growling stomach. Once from a high balcony he spied a column of hooded monks moving across a courtyard below him. He waited, breathless, till they were out of sight before quickly and quietly continuing his journey. He was a mouse scurrying unseen or heard through the nooks and fissures of the stones. After running up a wide spiral staircase he came to a long gallery room with three heavy wooden doors at the far end. Dimly lit by rows of small grimy green skylights the musty twilit space was as dank and forbidding as a swamp, Exhibited in this vast room was a disturbing display of animal skeletons which crowded over Grist as he made his way along a narrow walkway between the dust covered bony remains. They ranged in size from knee high to gargantuan. Eyeless sockets stared threateningly, sickle teeth grinned. Grist eyed the shadowy fleshless animals with trepidation and fascination as he edged his way through but he couldn’t identify them as birds or beasts he knew. They crouched and towered in a menacing assemblage of horns, teeth and claws. When he had eventually negotiated his way through the macabre menagerie he chose to enter centre door of the three which led to another long room. It was empty except for dust and light. As he entered, the brightness cinched eyes, for the far end of the room was taken by an enormous window of finely carved stone reaching from ceiling almost to the floor. The apertures between the sweeping curved stone masonry were unglazed, revealing a landscape beyond which made Grist’s poor heart leap and flutter like a jackdaw in a trap.
He stood entranced, thirstily absorbing the marvellous sight. A view so astonishing
that it momentarily stopped the pain of his life. Spread before him and far
below, a valley stretched to the far horizon, flooded with a clear harsh morning
light. A blanket of every imaginable colour, the landscape was a vivid patchwork
of vibrant hues. Large tracts of the valley floor were streaked with deep blushing
reds and warm earthy oranges. These seemed to blend subtlety into giant swirls
of acid green and yellow. Vast areas of emerald were dotted with flecks of turquoise
and blue, pools of rich purple fringed with magenta and carmine draped themselves
over the valley floor. As if rainbows, overhanging the valley had suddenly dropped
like a waterfalls of intense dyes splashing over the terrain in a mad profusion
of electrifying light and colour. The vision’s effect on Grist was profound;
his body was animated by unfamiliar electricity. Some heavy weight deep within
his spirit was lifting, his cheeks began to ache and he realised that for the
first time in ten years he was smiling.
Transfixed by the sight and ignoring his hunger pains he lingered at the gigantic
window. Leaning against the dusty carved stone he allowed his mind to filter
the jumble of unfamiliar images flooding his brain. Lying across the contours
of the landscape and unobscured by trees or any other vegetation he could see
a blanket of material, uniform in its soft matte texture but infinitely varied
in colour. It stretched from the valley floor below him into the distant morning
mists which still hung to the foothills of the far black mountains on the horizon.
Apart from the few high crags of bare rock which jutted out of the multicoloured
membrane no area of ground was untouched by its saturated vividness. The thread
of a silvery river snaked along the valley floor and far off along its banks
Grist could see what looked like dwelling places, small buildings huddled along
the waters edge. Straining his eyes he looked for signs of life but the settlement
was too distant. He drew his gaze nearer, to the ground below the high monastery
window and thought he saw among the subtly blending colours some slight movement.
Shiny scarlet beads scattered randomly among the matte of ever-changing colour
appeared to progress slowly from one place to another. His vantage point was
high and without any familiar form on the ground by which to compare scale,
Grist found it difficult to estimate the size of these moving objects. He watched
the slow leisurely quality of their locomotion which reminded him of grazing
animals browsing their way across fields.
The sound of footsteps nearby snatched him from his observation. He turned to
see the angry Shellshale marching swiftly toward him, long bony hand outstretched
to catch Grist by the ear. He drew Grist’s face to his own mottled features
and in a hot blast of rancid breath exhaled a triumphant “Hah!”
It had been to clear Shellshale from the previous evening’s events that the boy was more alien than even he had expected and understood very little of what was said to him. Shellshale was an old man and no longer relished new responsibilities. On being assigned the task of mentoring the off-world boy by the Abbott he was of course aware of the honour of the position but still resented the change to his comfortable and familiar regime. He also felt disappointed in himself. He knew he was no diplomat, known more for his brusqueness than his affability. He had started badly with the boy who had wept like a baby when Shellshale had attempted to put to him at ease with a friendly jibe and given him a reassuring tap on the shoulder. It was evident that the youth was soft as a child. Could this frail simple lad really have been sent across the Galaxy by the Elders of The Empire to save them?
On finding that the boy had gone from his cell Shellshale had spent an hour and a half looking for him. By the time he had tracked down the boy his feet and his temper were sore.
The look of terror in Grist’s eyes took the old monk by surprise. It had
been a long time since any one had feared old Shellshale and again he was ashamed
of himself for frightening the lad. Again he found himself wondering how this
ignorant, scared weakling could have been chosen by the Circle as the solution
to their crisis. His own task was not to be a simple one if he was to lead the
boy to success.
“Now then lad” he said with as much gentleness as his gruff voice could manage “No need to fear me. I shall help, not harm you”
Grist’s panic subsided as he recognised in the old man’s voice a note of concern. As the panic diminished the pangs of hunger reasserted themselves.
“I’m very hungry sir”
“I would be surprised if you weren’t. You disappeared from your cell before I came to take you to break fast. I will take you to eat now but one thing is good, you have seen your enemy!” he gestured toward the window and the riot of colour beyond.
You have
seen your enemy
“Enemy?” asked Grist puzzled.
“The moss! This poisonous canker of colours which chokes our land and poisons all!”
Grist, unable to understand how the old monk could not see the astonishing splendour which had lifted his own heart from its deep melancholy, spoke up. “I think it’s beautiful!”
Shellshale was too old to be easily shocked but the inscrutability of his age slipped as the boy’s words rang through his skull echoing the unspeakable.
“Beautiful!?” he roared infuriated. “Beautiful is it!?”
The return of the look of panic on the boy’s face reminded him of his responsibility to educate the boy and somehow empower him. He reigned in his temper.
“No, no boy this is no beauty this! Do not be deceived by the appeal of its gaudy colours lad. This evil weed is a scourge which threatens your life and mine. This blight is killing us all!”
Then a thought occurred to him “You do not know this? Have you not been informed of the situation here?”
“No” admitted Grist “I don’t know anything, I don’t even know where I am!” an edge of despair threatened to break his voice into a sob.
Shellshale deflated visibly. The enormity of his task was becoming clear. The boy was as ignorant as he was weak. “Why do you think you were sent here boy?”
Grist had been wondering about the same question and could only think of one possibility. “Was it because I fed the rats?”
Shellshale shook his head despondently “Come on lad. Come and get your food. While you eat I will explain to you what I can about your presence here then you can tell me about yourself and we shall see whether the mists of morning have cleared.”
Shellshale led Grist back through the room of skeletons and into a labyrinth
of narrow corridors to a great hall with two large tables flanked by narrow
wooden benches. A tall thin monk was scrubbing one of the tables. Shellshale
sat Grist at the end of one of the other table.
Shellshale called to him “Brother Aldouron, our guest missed his break fast meal. Would you kindly fetch some food for him?”
The lanky man went into an adjoining room and came back with a bowl of off white slurry streaked with red. The food was steaming hot and smelled strongly pungent. Grist took up his spoon and began to eat. Despite his hunger the food was barely edible; the flavour was unlike anything he had tasted. At first he thought it was fishy but it was also bitter and putrid, then he identified its odour as being like that of the sewer tank in the Glean Monastery. Seeing the difficulty with which Grist was consuming the meal Shellshale smiled sympathetically.
“Disgusting, is it not?”
Grist nodded.
“It is all you will eat here. It is all anyone eats except for the chromavores.”
The word was unfamiliar to Grist “Who are they?” he asked.
“They are the beasts you saw from the window boy!”
“The red things?” reflected Grist.
“Yes,” sneered Shellshale bitterly “the only contented creatures in the valley”
Grist recalled the grazing movements of the blood blister creatures on the carpet of colours.
“They were eating the moss weren’t they?”
“Oh they are unique in that respect, the only creatures that can eat it and live. It is poison. It poisons any beast or man that tastes it and any plant that touches it. That is why you saw no trees, no shrubs no grass, no flower, no vegetable other than the cursed moss” The rant was terminated with a hissing growl. Grist could see that the moss was an unbearably emotive topic and decided to change the subject.
“So what is this stuff?” asked Grist indicating his food with a flick of his spoon.
“Finish it and I will tell you” snapped the old monk.
Grist forced down a few more spoonfuls of the nauseating slop before venturing another question.
“Why can the red beasts eat the moss if it is poisonous” Grist enquired.
This time Shellshale seemed gratified that Grist was asking a pertinent question.
“Like you lad they are not sprung from this world they come from a world where the moss grows in harmony with its neighbours.”
“So the beasts and the moss come from the same place?”
“I just said they do. It is a place where nature is more violent and savage than this unwary world. They were bred from a forceful world where evolution is more extreme and survival depends on a fearsomeness and brutality unseen on this gentle planet.”
“So why are they here?” asked Grist finishing his eating before emptying his bowl.
Shellshale hesitated.
The important
thing to know
“The important thing for you to know boy, is that the Circle made a terrible
mistake when they decided to import the moss to this world.”
“Oh.” Said Grist, then after considering this he asked “so what about the red beasts?”
“The chromavores are a necessary evil. The moss was imported and farmed in the valley. It grew and spread with such rampant vigour that it broke free of the constraining borders in which it was contained. It destroyed all other plant life within the circle of mountains and because the native flora was destroyed the local fauna starved. All native plants and animals are now dead. The elders had selected this valley because they knew that the moss could not grow above a certain altitude. It was confined within the mountains but it has infected everyone in the valley with its spores we cannot leave this place or we may spread the moss beyond the valley and then the entire planet will be consumed by its unstoppable proliferation. The chromavores were imported to stem the spread and for the survival of those who were trapped here in the valley. The elders thought that by grazing the moss they might keep it from spreading but that did not work, the moss was too vigorous. However the chromavores did ensure our survival.”
Grist surmised that the question was in order. “How?”
“In consuming the moss their bodies absorb the poisons, these are nutrients to them and the chemicals in the moss we need to survive are rejected by their digestive systems. Nutrients sufficient to sustain human life are excreted by the chromavores providing the only source of food in the valley.”
“You mean I just ate kack?” spluttered Grist.
“And you will eat it again, and again until your mission here is completed” muttered Shellshale.
Once again the magnitude of the task overwhelmed him. He slumped back in his chair and looked long and hard at the youth. Fourteen or fifteen years old he guessed, unremarkable in every respect except that for some reason he had been chosen by the Circle of the Faith to rescue them. Why? What undiscovered qualities did the boy possess?
After break fast meal they supplicated at the altar of Saint Jupistaire. The
Chapel was cold damp and dingy. The walls were hung with grisly holy relics
of Saint Jupistaire’s bloody career as a warrior of the Faith. Among them
the remnants of a frayed tunic with the grey brown memory of a bloodstain on
its chest, Nine grimy dust covered skulls arranged in a cross, and suspended
on chains, round the top of the chapel’s circular wall hundreds of pairs
of skeleton feet variously sized. Most of the prayers and incantations were
new to Grist. He had never felt so ignorant, so callow. He was worried by Shellshale’s
assertion that he had been transported here by the leaders of the Faith to fulfil
a mission of which he had no recollection. Was it possible that he had been
informed by the monks of the Glean monastery of his purpose and simply not paid
attention? How could he have forgotten such important information? He was bewildered
by questions and uncertainties. The old monk Shellshale seemed disappointed
in him and though he answered Grist’s questions showed irritation at his
lack of knowledge. However Grist was determined that this would not deter him
from gleaning as much information from Shellshale as he could.
From the Chapel Grist was marched across a quad of flagstones to a vast tower
crowned by a gigantic dome. As they climbed the steep internal staircase Shellshale
issued instructions.
“Bow your head when you meet the Abbott. Address him as “your Excellency”. Answer his questions truthfully.”
At the top of the staircase they stopped at a small landing with a short ladder leading up to a trapdoor above their heads. Shellshale, short of breath and uncharacteristically red in the face turned to Grist.
“Remember the man you are about to encounter is more powerful and important than any person you have met. You must show him the utmost respect.”
He picked up a wooden staff which was leaning against the wall and thrust it with all his might at the stout wooden trapdoor. The harsh sound of the impact was answered by a faint “Enter!” from above.
The interior was a large space. Grist estimated about twenty paces from wall
to wall. Cut out of the overarching dome was a slot which ran vertically from
the very apex of the hemisphere down one side of the dome almost to the floor.
The room was dominated by an enormous telescope which was inclined at a horizontal
angle to run the radius of the floor space and protrude through lowest part
of the dome’s aperture. Supporting this brass giant was a construction
of metal struts which incorporated many gears, ratchets and pulleys. The whole
assembly was mounted on wheels which rested on iron rails describing the interior
circumference of the room. Apart from the impressive machinery of the telescope
the room seemed to be furnished as a shabby but once opulent living space. Tables
piled high with books and manuscripts, an unmade four posted bed, two armchairs,
bookshelves, a washstand several large statues and other pieces of furniture
were arranged chaotically across the room. All were mounted on castors, evidently
for ease of relocation when the contraption supporting the giant telescope swept
its arc across the room.
As he stood beside Shellshale taking in the scene, Grist noticed the Abbott.
He was standing with his back to them wearing what appeared to be a nightshirt
which was hoisted up at the front and relieving himself into a tall vase. He
was oblivious to their presence until Shellshale gave an embarrassed cough.
The Abbott’s head turned, his eyes were puffy as if he had just been woken,
as they alighted on Grist he smiled.
“Ah, here’s our hero!” He croaked.
He finished his urination without any haste or embarrassment, dropped the hem of his nightshirt and doddered across to a scruffy armchair into which he lowered himself with what seemed inordinate carefulness.
“Piles.” He explained apologetically.
Shellshale introduced his charge.
“Your Excellency. This is Bowden Grist, sent by their holinesses the Circle of the Faith to aid our plight.”
The Abbott scrutinised Grist “So how do you propose to resolve our predicament young man? With your catapult, perhaps?”
Grist sensed he was being made fun of and his inadequacy deepened.
“I don’t have a catapult Your Excellency” he muttered uncertainly.
“What no catapult?!” exclaimed the Abbott. “Then we are most certainly for the chop! What then? What ingenious scheme have you cooked up to rid us of the gay grass?”
In his awkwardness Grist struggled for a way to explain his predicament, to excuse his ignorance but words failed to come.
Shellshale stepped forward.
“He has more questions than answers your Excellency.”
The Abbott reflected, nodded “I see.”
Suddenly he changed from jovial eccentricity to a seriousness and gravity which left Grist bewildered.
“Then choose your questions wisely. You will find we cannot give you the solution. We do not have it, but we will educate you to the facts of the situation. You must use your own eyes young Grist. Observation is your most powerful tool. What you see you will know.” Perceiving the look of incomprehension on Grist’s face the Abbott gingerly raised himself from his chair. “Come I will show you what I mean”
He led Grist to the telescope and looking through it made some minor adjustments to its position. “Look here.” He directed Grist to the eyepiece.
The circular picture showed a riverbank covered in light green and yellow moss.
It was the same river Grist had viewed from the window earlier but appeared
so near that grist could see each ripple in the water. Standing knee deep in
the shallows a naked young woman was washing herself. Stooping to splash water
over her olive skinned body, her ample breasts were dappled by the water reflected
sunlight. The adolescent monk who had never seen a naked woman reacted first
with shock, then fascination followed by sexual arousal.
“Enough!” said the Abbott. Grist reluctantly dragged his gaze from the lens. “I could have described that young woman bathing herself you and you would have known she was there, but doesn’t seeing it yourself give you a richer experience and a more thorough knowledge?
Grist readily agreed and wondered whether he dare sneak another look into the lens.
“This is what I mean. You must observe to truly understand. Clearly the Circle believes you can help us but have given you no knowledge of us or our plight. This must be deliberate and I deduce from this that they did not wish to influence your impression of us or our planet. Obviously the Circle has faith that your own unique perception and experience will help us. You have been chosen Grist; the important question is, why? So look around you and ask your questions.”
Grist’ thoughts still lingered on the curvaceous contours of the young
woman’s body and the Abbott’s command took him by surprise. What had
the abbot said? Look around and ask questions. He looked. The most interesting
thing in the room (apart from the telescope) were the three life sized figures
made out of bronze metal, greened with age. One represented a woman scantily
dressed, another a well muscled man carrying a map and a sword. The third statue
was of a headless figure whose body was human though its gender was difficult
to identify.
“What are those, Your Excellency?” asked Grist pointing.
“These are heathen icons, reminders of the indigenous religion of this place. These are moon Gods, made and worshipped by the local people before the arrival of the true faith. A god for each moon.” Here, the woman is ‘Mur’ representing destiny. The man god is Dragrill, god of ambition and self determination.” The Abbott touched the smooth metal figures fondly as he spoke with enthusiasm and affection of the heathen beliefs. To Grist’s ears it sounded almost blasphemous. The Abbott laid his wrinkly hand on the shoulder of the headless god “...And this is the most feared, ‘Kazir’ god of chaos, the mindless one. The three moons of our planet Mur, Dragrill and Kazir. These represent the three fates of the pantheon of the moons. Destiny, self-determination and chaos. Which fate would you choose Grist?”
Grist was uncomfortable with the question, fearing that it may be a concealed test of heresy.
“I would not pray to them Your Excellency but I would choose Dragrill, he looks the strongest.”
The Abbott nodded with approval and satisfaction. “He does, doesn’t he, but we had better hope that the other two do not take offence at your favouritism.” He said smiling “You will need their cooperation too.”
Grist didn’t doubt that he would need all the help he could get.
The Abbott turned toward Shellshale who was standing patiently by “Take him to speak to Candleshank. Goodnight” and with this the old Abbott got into his bed and pulled the blankets over his head.
Shellshale let out an involuntary puff of indignation at his brusque dismissal before bowing to the heap of dishevelled blankets and leading Grist back down the trapdoor.
Candleshank sat cross legged in a dark windowless room. Shellshale pushed Grist
inside, seated him on a stone bench opposite Candleshank, illuminated a single
candle and closed the door before seating himself next to Candleshank.
“Who is here?” demanded the stranger.
The candlelight revealed Candleshank to be a thin man of about forty. His head was wrapped in a course pale cloth which covered the top half of his face including his eyes. His upper torso was uncovered revealing a concave and very ribby chest. A cloth which was wrapped round his waist covered his legs and feet.
“It is Shellshale. I have bought the new arrival to meet you”
“Why?” His voice was quiet and deep, the tone, flat and disinterested.
Shellshale did not answer but nodded at Grist to continue.
“Uh… Because the Abbott told him to.” offered Grist.
Candleshank sat motionless and silent. Shellshale made a rolling motion with his hand signalling Grist to continue.
“My name is Bowden Grist and I have been sent to this world from another.”
“Why?”
“Well at first I thought it was punishment for feeding the rats in the Glean Monastery but now I think I was chosen because the Circle Thinks I can do something about the moss.”
“Why did you feed the rats?”
The question surprised Grist he had been expecting the conversation to focus on the problem of moss.
“They were hungry”
“Why were they hungry?”
“Because all the grain in the stables were I lived was locked away in a rat-proof store.”
“Why did you live in a stable?”
All this seemed irrelevant to Grist and apparently to Shellshale who was looking increasingly impatient.
“It was my job to look after the horses”
“Why?”
Candleshank’s style of conversation was irritating and demanding. And despite his age and status Grist found himself losing patience. He decided to counterattack with a question of his own.
“Why do you sit in the dark with that cloth over your eyes?”
“I sit in the dark because I am blind; I wear the cloth because it is comfortable, any other questions?”
“No” said Grist deflated.
“Good, then perhaps you would be good enough to answer mine.” Candleshank’s deep authoritative voice was impatient but not impolite. “Why was it your job to look after the horses?”
“I don’t know” admitted Grist “I think because I helped one when it was sick once. When we were on a pilgrimage, one of the horses had a fever and I cure it with some feverbane I found growing nearby. I thought it would help.”
“Why?” A tone of genuine interest was appearing in Candleshank’s favourite word.
“I had noticed that the horses ate it themselves when they were unwell. After that I had to work in the monastery stables.”
Candleshank moved his lips, but to avoid the inevitable monosyllabic question Grist continued quickly.
“I had to do as the monks said. I was in their care, ever since they took me from home when I was four.”
Emotion was spilling into his voice now. He desperately hoped that his inquisitor was not going to take him back to memories of his home, his parents, his mother’s warm arms, and his father’s muddy boots on the kitchen floor. These poignant memories of his childhood were secret and painful. They were his private, personal treasures of a happy time before he had committed the foolish crime which had ruined his life. The inquisitor was relentless.
“Why did they take you from your home?”
Grist’s great guilt welled up and overtook him. The regret and shame which had festered in him for ten years overwhelmed him. He felt the loss of his mother as keenly now as when he’d watched her weeping by the gate of their home as he was driven away in the wagon of the silent monks.
“Bowden, why did the monks take you from your home?”
Candleshank’s voice was gentler now, sympathetic. No one had called him by just his first name since…
“I did something, something bad.” There was no way he would tell them. He just wanted to forget.
“Tell me Bowden, please” Candleshank’s insistent quiet voice reassured, offered within it a promise of something, an opportunity to share this unburdenable shame. Before he realised it the terrible truth came spilling out of Grist.
“I let my father’s chickens loose!” he blubbered.
“Thank you Bowden, thank you very much” Said Candleshank gently. “You may go now.”
Feeling resentful and ashamed Grist followed Shellshale from Candleshank’s room. He was relieved to escape the claustrophobic confines of that uncomfortable space. The act of his own confession had shocked him. The long denied memory of that shameful deed had suddenly leapt from his mouth and left him vulnerable. He walked in Shellshale’s footsteps silently dwelling on the conversation until the need to justify himself could no longer be contained.
“They were kept in tiny cages. I just wanted them to be free” He protested.
Shellshale turned toward him and lowered his head to Grist’s level. “Who told you that your parents sent you to the monastery as a punishment for freeing the chickens?”
“No, they didn’t tell me, I just know.”
“How do you know?”
“The monks came the next day so it must be true.”
“Then you assume. Assumptions are not knowledge and the truth is just a theory which has yet to be disproven.”
Grist did not fully comprehend this statement but for some reason the words shone, like the vision of the moss, with promise. The phrase had a resonance of importance; he locked it into his memory. The truth is just a theory which has yet to be disproven. They walked in silence along the dark corridor towards the mid morning sunlight of the quad.
A huge fat man with a large wheelbarrow was hurrying across the quad. As he
noticed Shellshale and Grist he stopped his charge and dropped the barrow which
skidded to a halt in front of him.
“Brother Shellshale!” he called affably. “You always find me in my hour of need. My friend” He beckoned with wide sweeps of his arm.
Shellshale let out a bitter tut of annoyance. “Oakbone” he spat disdainfully under his breath as he reluctantly changed direction towards the massive monk.
As they approached Grist realised the enormity of the man. He was twice Grist’s height and must have weighed as much as a cow. His brown putty skin was drenched in sweat and he was puffing like a sow in labour.
“Brother Oakbone you look a little overheated.” said Shellshale with exaggerated concern. “Perhaps you should rest awhile?”
“No no brother,” Gasped Oakbone “We have no time. The townspeople are delivering the borridge! We must assist in its collection.”
“Err… I’m sorry Brother but I cannot help you on this occasion; I have an appointment with the Abbott you see…It is unfortunate, but um, Perhaps young Grist here could support you in you labour?” Shellshale indicated his solution by resting his hand on grist’s bony shoulder
Oakbone cast his piggy eyes down past his own barrel gut at Grist’s puny frame. Looking to Shellshale’s expression, for an indication that he was joking, he saw only sincerity.
“Right then Brother Shellshale... Capital idea! Yes, thank you so much! Well young Grist we shall be workmates, yes? Come then, to the ramparts. It’s time to meet your neighbours.” And with that he grabbed the oversized wheelbarrow and charged off with surprising speed. Grist looked up at Shellshale who, with a flick of his eyebrows and a jerk of his head indicated for Grist to follow.
When Grist caught up with Oakbone he was tying the barrow to a rope suspended
from a pulley on the ramparts of the outer wall of the monastery.
“Quick, my friend up that ladder! Quick as you like!” with a nod he indicated a long wooden ladder secured to the wall. Grist scampered up, excited at the thought of seeing the moss again.
On the walkway at the top of the wall roughly a dozen monks were frantically occupied with the task of collecting the borridge. Some hauling on ropes others scurrying round with baskets and bundles wrapped in sheets and blankets. Grist began to haul on the rope attached to Oakbone’s heavy barrow but he had hardly lifted it from the ground before the big man was standing over him yanking on the rope. The barrow ascended like a bubble to the surface of a pond. From it Oakbone drew a blanket with rope tied to each corner to form a kind of sling. He threw the blanket over the battlement so that it hung against the wall on the outside of the monastery. Grist climbed onto a pile of sacks to see over the wall to the outside world.
The vibrant panorama of bright colours thrilled him again. He felt a momentary
urge to leap into the deep rich kaleidoscopic brilliance of the magical moss.
The clamouring noise of people below drew his eye to the foot of the wall. A
group of men women and children, dressed in rags, were unloading handcarts of
a pale, shiny substance into the baskets, blankets, tubs and buckets suspended
on ropes by the monks at the top of the wall. Among these outsiders and equalling
them in number were the animals; ugly red beasts the size of dogs. Each had
six long segmented legs extended from a bulbous leathery body. Their tiny blackish
purple heads which hardly protruded from under this bulging abdomen were peppered
with a hideous array of bead like eyes. Grist could also see small forelimbs
ending in crab like pincers. The beasts scuttled round the men and women as
they laboured to unload the handcarts.
Oakbone’s
conversation with Zeetash
Oakbone was holding the rope whilst the blanket below was loaded with borridge.
“Zeetash my friend! Good to see you! Are you well?” He called to one of the people below.
“I endure!” replied brown skinned man “And you Eretash! How is life in there with the holy ones?”
Oakbone smiled. “The food is bad, but the company is worse!” Both men laughed. “How are my mother and Hanelli are they well? Oakbone asked.
They are well and send their love. Your mother says she will come with the next delivery.”
“And my sister? What about Hanelli?”
“She is well but cannot come for a while. Your mother will explain.”
Oakbone was about to shout something back to the man when a desperate cry from
the other end of the wall stopped him.
“Slip! Slip! A Climber! One is coming up!”
Grist craned his head to see what the panicked monk was pointing at. One of the beasts had begun to scale the wall. Somehow gaining purchase on the stonework with its long legs and pincers the animal was ignoring the worried shouts of the crowd below and making slow but steady progress upward. A flurry of panic and much excited shouting among the monks at the top of the wall resulted in a large pot of viscous liquid being discharged over the battlements to form a slippery patch on the wall in the way of the oncoming creature. The animal paused momentarily then resumed its relentless approach. A group of agitated monks waited above it with long poles ready to fend it away. Grist ran to them to get a better view. The determined animal was close enough now for Grist to see its face. The mouth, a vertical gash, was lipped with a roll of puckered flesh which quivered as if with the effort. Silence fell as the two groups watched, breath held, eyes wide. The climbing fiend picked its way carefully testing its foothold with each step. The monks above nervously shifted their grasps on their staffs. It was half way up the wet slick of liquid and still coming. Grist edged along the wall away from its path. “More slip!” someone shouted. “Where is the slip?” The unstoppable red invader had almost negotiated the patch of viscous “slip” when its footing slipped. It dropped half its length before somehow saving its fall. Motionless it hung on the wall, suspended like a drip of blood. All held their breaths, frozen in anticipation until at last the beast dropped to the ground with a thick thud.
Though his makeshift sling was only two thirds full Oakbone yanked up on the rope to prevent another of the creatures crawling on to it. Swiftly hauling his load to the top he dumped the lumpy stinking stuff into his barrow.
Poking his head out over the parapet he called down. “It was good to see you Zeetash, Send my love to mother and Hanelli and remember me to your boys. Tell them their uncle Eretash will come down and kick their behinds unless they obey their mother.”
“Goodbye old friend!” called Zeetash.
Oakbone lowered his barrow to the ground on the pulley and Grist ran behind as the giant powered the cargo across the ground.
Oakbone’s
History
“Why did that man call you Eretash?” asked Grist.
“Eretash was my Verdasian name. All the people of Bashnii know me. I was born and grew up there. Oakbone is the name I was christened by the Abbott when I joined the faith. It is a traditional Circle name.”
“Where is Bashnii?”
“It is the town just down the river from here. Zeetash and all those people delivering our food come from there.”
“You came to live in the Monastery from there? Did your family send you away as punishment? What did you do? How old were you?” Grist was excited at the prospect of finding a shared history. Oakbone crashed the barrow through double doors into a steamy hot kitchen, rank with the stench of borridge, and set down the barrow.
“Punishment?” Oakbone turned and looked directly at Grist. His dark flabby face divided in a wide smile and a laugh of incredulity bubbled up from his big fat belly. “Ha! You may have a point my friend,” he chuckled “but no, at the time it was regarded as an honour for a young lad such as me to be selected for a position in the brotherhood of the Faith. I was chosen for my skills to serve the order. Skills I learned from my dear father who was the Herbsman of Bashnii. There was nothing I did not know of the medicinal qualities of the plants in these parts. I could cure you of a blood nose or a coughing death in those days. Now nothing grows and my craft is useless, I am reduced to cook! Cooking crap! Heat it, add salt. There now, you know all of the culinary secrets of cooking borridge!” He sat down on a sack of borridge and gazed into the mid distance as if remembering the joys of practicing his craft. Then a look of puzzlement crossed his face. “Why did you think I was sent as a punishment?”
Grist decided not to answer. Clearly he had been mistaken about Oakbone’s history and wasn’t about to suffer the humiliation so freshly experienced at the hands of Candleshank.
Oakbone’s little eyes narrowed, a look of seriousness overcame his face. “You know little partner,” he said “The order does not take novices to punish them. You and I, my friend, we were chosen for our special qualities. Tell me what your special qualities are.”
“Don’t know.” said Grist bluntly. He was formulating a question which had been playing on his mind and was keen to redirect the focus of the conversation. “Why did everyone seem so scared of that animal which tried to climb in to the monastery?”
Oakbone shuddered “Ooh that is something we cannot have! Red-Daddies in the Abbey! Oh no, no, no. Life here may be dull little partner but we like it that way. Those Red-Daddies, they are demons! Drive you to madness they will those little beggars. You be wise my friend and stay away from them. They will steal your life!”
“They seemed to be friendly to the people outside the wall” Grist pointed out.
“Hah! Friendly is the word! Indeed, yes, exactly so. Believe me my boy, every villager there, would rather have all three moon-gods as enemies than to have a friend like Red-Daddy.”
“Aren’t they believers in the Faith?”
“Like everyone, they believe in what they need to. When faith lets you down you look elsewhere.” Oakbone looked a little conspiratorial “Do not judge them my friend, the circle has done them a great injustice and destroyed a beautiful way of life. We cannot blame them for wishing to return to the old ways”.
The two sat in silent contemplation of their own thoughts for some time before Oakbone slapped his thighs and said
“This comfortable silence we share is eating our time! If we allow it more we shall not eat tonight. It is time I shared with you the culinary secrets of cooking borridge!”
The next few hours Grist spent in the easy company of the jovial Oakbone. Cooking borridge, sharing tales and eventually, even growing used to the stench.
Shellshale entered the kitchen holding his nose.
“You bust cumb wid be. You hab ad appointment wid de Abbott.” He turned, beckoning Grist to follow.
“Goodbye for now little partner!” said Oakbone cordially extending his gigantic hand for Grist to shake. “I’ll see you when we meet. Remember, stay away from the Red-Daddies yes?”
“I will.” promised Grist.
Shellshale turned to give Oakbone the darkest of looks before leading Grist away.
The Abbott was sitting in his bed surrounded by bits of paper. As Shellshale
and Grist entered he looked up from a document he was inspecting with a magnifying
glass.
“Success!” he announced. “You, my boy, have been found out!”
Grist shrank.
“Our excellent detective work has identified you as a top class spy, expert in your field and fully equipped to save the day and you have no idea what I am alluding to do you young Grist?”
“No your Excellency.”
“Shellshale here has reported to me on your little chat with our nosey friend Candleshank. It has become abundantly clear that you are a person with very particular qualities, qualities which the Circle have identified as being of great use to us in our hour of desperate need and you are unaware of what these qualities are, aren’t you?”
“Yes your Excellency.”
“Then I will make it all clear as spring water. You believe that your induction into the Glean monastery was a punishment for releasing your fathers birds, yes?”
“Yes your Excellency.”
“A most preposterous assumption, as is the belief that you have been sent here for feeding rats at Glean. Your life rides on the backs of animals young Grist. You were appointed to the stables because of your affinity with animals and that is why you have been sent here!”
Grist considered this possibility “But your Excellency, you have no animals here.”
“Not at all true” said the Abbott “We have thousands. Unfortunately they are all of one type which makes it much simpler for you to know where to start. You must go out into the valley and study these chromavores. They must be the key to the problem of the moss otherwise why would The Circle have sent you?”
“Into the valley?” stuttered Grist, incredulous at the prospect.
“Of course, that is where the beasts are! We cannot invite them into the Abbey can we? Oh I am so relieved that we have solved our little puzzle! We must waste no time. You must venture forth forthwith! We are agreed then. Yes? Will you go now?”
A vision of the freakish red creature climbing closer and closer flashed through Grist’s mind. The recollection of the surrounding mounting panic as the fiend ascended bought a veil of fear down over him.
“No! Its a mistake! I don’t know anything about those things. They’re scary! Please don’t send me out there. Honestly, I shouldn’t be here. I can’t do anything! They can get rid of the moss with technology!”
Expressions of shock fell simultaneously on the faces of the Abbott and Shellshale.
The Abbott closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “Technology he says, Oh yes
that universal panacea. The miraculous box of tricks we dip into when we cock
it all up!” The Abbott slammed down his magnifying glass. “Which little
magical gem should we use to disappear our problems this time? Genetic engineering?
nano-technology? Terraforming or a nuclear bomb perhaps? As his anger mounted
the Abbott was animatedly bouncing up and down on his mattress “No no no!
The problem is complex, the solution cannot be simple! Technology is a double
edged sword. For every problem it solves it causes another. Did they teach you
nothing at Glean?”
Bewildered by the Abbott’s rage the boy’s eyes flickered in miserable mental turmoil. Gagging on the ineloquence of his youth he struggled for words of defence but none came, instead tears of frustration and shame flooded his frightened eyes.
Shellshale interjected “He is young, your Excellency, and does not have the benefit of a good education.” He turned to Grist “The Faith must use such innovations in measured ways which are appropriate to the planet. History has shown us that technological solutions have short term benefits and unpredictable side effects. The days of the rule of science over faith ended long ago with the Great Rift when science ruptured time. Now we must be ever cautious. The Circle has access to great and dangerous wonders and has the wisdom to use them judiciously. They have elected you Grist to help us and we must all trust their good judgment. We must have faith young Grist. Vertas is a pre-industrial planet we must preserve its natural temporal development. This means that the people must not know of the technologies of other worlds. You must promise us that you will not divulge anything of the technology which bought you here to the people of the valley. Will you promise this Grist?”
Grist tried to imagine himself outside, alone dealing with the natives… dealing with the chromavores!
“I’m not going” stated Grist defiantly. The uncertainty outside
the Abbey walls was more terrifying than the certain punishment the monks would
meter.
The Abbott sat bolt upright in his bed staring open mouthed at the recalcitrant boy in disbelief. His eyebrows pushed upwards into the folds in his forehead. “Not going? Not going? Am I hearing things?” He cast off his blanket and swung his skinny white legs out of bed. “Remember this morning when I asked you which moon God you favoured, you chose Dragrill God of self-determination.” Walking unsteadily over the paper strewn floor towards the statues his ice coloured eyes fixed Grist with stare so intense that the boy was mesmerised as a rabbit in the cobra’s sway. “Consider the options open to you. There are only two. Firstly you can choose to hide within the Abbey living your life as the boy who could have but wouldn’t. Alternatively you can summon the courage of Jupistaire, go out into the valley, discover why you are here and become a hero! You should realize your great fortune young Grist you have a great destiny to fulfil!”
The Abbott was standing beside the statue of Mur, his hand resting on her bronze shoulder, his eyes appreciatively following the contours of her slender neck. “She has always been my favourite” He said softly “Such elegant, graceful beauty, so full of seductive promise. All the purpose and fulfilment a man could ask for, she unravels the mystery of his life and sets it before him like a feast, the banquet of life. You are lucky indeed, my boy, to have a destiny.”
The serene face of Mur looked down on Grist as he considered his options. He knew the right thing to do was to try to help. Helping others had been the subject of many sermons the Order had been founded to help others, but he was scared. Surely the old monks could see that this was no task for a boy alone.
come to
the valley with me
He looked at the strange little figure of the Abbott distractedly stroking the back of the statue. Grist wasn’t entirely convinced of his sanity. He was old frail and weak. He would be no use on the outside. He switched his attention to Shellshale who was tinkering with a small brass mechanical device like an old fashioned planetarium. As He turned the handle three brass rings each bearing a sphere of marbled stone rotated at different speeds around a central brass ball engraved with a map. Shellshale was old, but strong and fit and, Grist suspected, very clever. “Would you come to the valley with me Brother Shellshale?” asked Grist.
Shellshale stopped winding the handle of the device, remaining as motionless as the tiny moons frozen in orbit around their little planet and through a hush as silent as space the boy’s mentor appeared as lifeless as the statue to which the Abbott clung.
Eventually the moons were jerked into motion as Shellshale resumed revolving the handle. “I would consider it an honour and a great privilege to escort you but I fear I must relinquish the role to one who is more suitable.”
“Who?” asked Grist.
“The person who knows the valley best of course. He who’s intimate knowledge of the geography of the region is unsurpassed. The man who understands the ways and cultures of the valley people like a native because, in fact, he is one. You have, I’m sure, surmised that I refer to our oversized cook Oakbone.”
The Abbott still enrapt by the attraction of Mur spoke distractedly. “Splendid Idea!” As he spoke he was wiping dust from the statue with the sleeve of his habit “Yes, what say you grist?” He suddenly noticed with obvous annoyance that a coalesion of dust had congealed in the crevices at the bottom of the casting where the bronze was formed to a serpent-like fish coiled round Mur’s slender calves. He shrank his arm further back up his sleeve in order to cover his index finger with his cuff and poking at the grime continued “Having an ally such as the mighty Oakbone must assuage your fears significantly, does it not?”
